


White as a Rainbow, as Summer as Snow

by honeypieblues



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Beatles, Alternate Universe - Teachers, And Julian's just gotta be there for it, Because he's just going through some things I promise, Cynthia gets a girlfriend and gets to be happy I promise, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/F, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, John Lennon Being an Asshole, M/M, McLennon is canon, Multi, Music teacher Paul McCartney, Oh honey you just KNOW Paul and John are gonna be petty towards each other at first, Slow Burn, The Starrison is really on the side, but not for long, but that's like, kind of, later on
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-16 11:53:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29206917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeypieblues/pseuds/honeypieblues
Summary: ... Paul McCartney, a youth band director and music teacher, has noticed one of his students isn't feeling his best. Determined to help out, he bites off more than he can chew.... Julian Lennon, the newest music student, has been having troubles at home. That, and he's really not excited for this whole band thing.... John Lennon, an unwilling father in a crumbling marriage, has been looking for something new to make him feel whole. The only problem is, he finds it in a rather unorthodox place.... Cynthia Lennon, a hard working woman and a wonderful mother, just wants what's best for her child. But it seems like the world's working against her, and she has no idea what to do.Nothing is how it should be. What will fix it?
Relationships: Cynthia Lennon/John Lennon, George Harrison/Ringo Starr, Jane Asher/Cynthia Lennon, John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 4
Kudos: 27





	1. Hey Jude

Paul had been a music teacher for 4 years now, and he loved _every_ single part of his job.

He had always wanted children, but had no wife; his students kept him company. He once dreamed of performing for crowds, but had no fame; his students always watched in awe as he played the piano with a lovely sort of ease. There wasn’t a better feeling in the world than the warmth that bloomed in his chest when the class greeted him. Every little moment of ‘aha!’ or, ‘I think I’ve got it!’ was now forever burned into Paul’s mind, precious memories filed under a little cove called “my new family.”

Paul, at first, had nothing; his students gave him everything.

He was about to get a chance to return the favor, and maybe a little more than what he bargained for.

~ ~ ~

His last class of the week had ended just a few minutes ago, along with the school day. Paul couldn’t blame the students for wanting to go home, but he wished they’d at least take the time to tidy up the chairs before they left. The kids were silly little brats, but they were his own. He started shifting through the mess of seats, pushing them into somewhat straight rows. It was good enough for now, wasn’t it? He would settle for good enough; Paul learned a long time ago that you can’t be a perfectionist with children. It never ends well for anybody.

As he wiped the chalkboard clean, he recalled little miss Eleanor’s trumpet solo during the winter concert. Her breathing was shaky near the end, and she’d gotten a few notes wrong, but the pride he felt for her was remarkable.

As he locked up the instrument cabinets, he recalled darling Molly’s first time playing the drums. She was so offbeat that Paul swore a monkey could keep a better tempo, but the look in her eyes told him everything he needed to know; she was going to make it.

As he started packing to go home, he recalled trickster-Desmond’s ‘prank’ fiasco. It took Paul at least three hours to find the clarinet section’s reeds hidden in the classroom, Desmond huffing and puffing with laughter during the majority of the period. Some were chipped beyond saving, leading to fifty dollars in reed replacements from Paul’s own pocket. That was during his first year teaching, and as much as he wanted the best for Desmond, he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t relieved that the kid left band class. Still, it was a memory he held close.

You really _can’t_ be a perfectionist with children. You just have to love the perfection that they already are.

A knock on the door pulled Paul from his fond reminiscing. “Who is it?” He called, cramming a binder of sheet music into his bag.

The door creaked open, and a head poked inside. “Mr. McCartney?” Paul immediately recognized the boy; it was his new student, Julian Lennon. “Um. My da’s not here to pick me up yet, ‘n…” He looked to the floor in shame, body half hanging in the classroom. “It’s cold out... Could I come in and wait with you?”

Paul put his bag back on his desk. His parents were late again? Good god, this was the third time this month. His heart felt heavy for him, he couldn’t just say no. “O’course, little Judie, come on in.” Julian stepped inside, hands nervously fidgeting. He was a quiet child, very polite, and well spoken. He was already one of Paul’s favorite students, despite only just joining his class about a week ago. He hadn’t even picked an instrument yet, but what he lacked in musical skill, he made up for in personality. Paul looked over to the piano, the grand old thing sitting at the front of the classroom and collecting dust. Julian noticed, his head cocking. “How about we practice while we wait?”

“Oh, I… I’m sorry, Mr. McCartney. I don’t know how to play the piano, either.” Julian said shyly, seeming embarrassed. “And I don’t know if I can learn! I’m too old!” Paul laughed, sat down on the bench, and patted the spot next to him.

“Judie, you’re ten. You’re nowhere near too old. I picked up my first instrument when I was nine, now come on over.”

Hesitating for a second, Julian stepped away from the door, walking over to sit by Paul. He looked over the keys with confusion, not looking up. “I don’t know… I don’t think I’m good at band.”

“But you haven’t even picked an instrument yet. You should give it a chance, at least see if you like it. Got any ideas?”

Julian shrugged, lifting a hand to the piano. He hit the C key a few times. “My da’ says I should try a trumpet, or somethin’... He was the one who signed me up in the first place, shouldn’t he pick?”

‘ _The same dad who can’t even be bothered to pick you up on time?’_ Paul kept the thought to himself, but a sort of frustration sat in his stomach. Julian’s father should’ve helped him at least choose an instrument. You shouldn’t just throw your child into band and expect them to know what to do. Paul tapped his chin, pretending to think. “You know, I think your dad’s right. A trumpet would be just gear for you, boy. It’ll sound like this--” Paul pretended to play the trumpet, fingers pressing fake buttons as a loud, offkey ‘When the Saints Go Marching In’ rendition buzzed from his puckered lips. Julian laughed, clapping his hands after the show-stopping performance. “But, you know, you’ll sound lots and lots better, ‘cause I bet you’re a natural.”

Paul liked seeing Julian laugh. The boy came down from his giggle fit, his expression brighter than before. “Anybody can sound better than that, Mr. McCartney! Anybody!” He pressed the C key a few more times now, looking back to the piano. “But I’ll try the trumpet. Since you ‘n da’ think I should.”

“There we go. You’ll have lots of fun with it, I’m sure. I’ll have to talk with your parents, see if we can get you a rented horn.” Paul’s hands came down onto the piano keys, playing an absentminded soft tune. It was one of the songs that he kept in his head, with no words to accompany it- Paul never put words to his songs, which meant that countless _nameless_ melodies were free to bounce around his skull and annoy him half to death. Julian watched as Paul played, but his little eyes didn’t watch with the same starstruckness as they used to. It was easy to notice. “Hey Jude,” the teacher hummed. “What’s going on in that mind, anyways?”

Julian looked down to his feet, swinging them back and forth. “My mind? Well... I really wanna be home sleeping.” The two laughed. “Ma’s gonna take me out for supper. Said her and da’ need some time apart… They really must think I’m dumb.” Paul stopped playing, prompting the boy to continue with a nod. “Well, I know what’s gonna happen. They’re separating.”

So that’s what this was about, poor boy… His parents were going through a rough patch. Paul couldn’t begin to imagine how that felt, especially at such a young age. He patted Julian’s back. “Lord, sorry to hear that… They might just need some space, who’s to say it’ll end so rough?”

“But why should people need time apart when they love each other?” Julian asked, knotted hands now squeezing his knees. “That’s why you get married and stuff… So you don’t have to be apart.”

Paul had no sort of preparation for this kind of conversation, but he supposed he should’ve expected it. Part of being a teacher was dealing with upset kids. So, he put a hand on Julian’s shoulder, giving it a soft pat. “Sometimes, people can love each other, and still not always want to be around each other. Would you want to spend each and every hour with your parents, listening to them talk about taxes? Adult nonsense?”

Julian giggled a little. “No...”

“But you still love ‘em, yeah?”

“Sure! But I didn’t marry ‘em, Mr. McCartney! And that’s what I’m wonderin’ about...”

Paul sighed. “I know, I know, little Jude. I don’t have all the answers, I’m afraid. I’m just the big ol’ idiot who bangs on the piano, you know. Even a dog could do it, really. Couldn’t a dog play like I do, Jude?” Julian started full-on laughing again. Thank god. “But, it’ll work out. Maybe not in a way you think, but it’ll work out.”

“Really?”

“Yea. Really.”

Julian took a second before he hugged Paul tight, squeezing him as hard as he could. Paul was surprised, the only time students have hugged him was near the end of the school year. Still, he wrapped his arms around the boy, giving him a light squeeze. “Thank you, I don’t feel so sad anymore.”

“Neither do I, lad.” Paul wanted to give this kid the world.

A beep came from the intercom speakers.

_“Julian Lennon, please come to the office, your mom’s here to pick you up.”_

Finally. Paul was relieved. “Right! Gear. Let’s go, then. I’ve got a few questions for her.” 

“You do?” 

“Trumpet, remember?”

“Oh. Yeah.”

The two stood up from the piano bench, Paul grabbing his bag and sliding it onto his shoulder. “After you, little Jude. I’ve gotta close up.” Julian left the classroom, leaving Paul to flick the lights off and lock the door behind them. They walked together down the hall, and the man couldn’t help but notice how Julian glanced at his feet every few seconds. The little guy wanted to stay in sync with him. That made him smile.

In the office sat a tired looking woman, with one leg crossed over the other, and her head rested on her hand. Her face was framed with long, platinum blonde hair, and her eyes were thickly lined in black. As Paul and Julian walked in, she looked up and smiled, a little surprised to see the older of the two. “I’m sorry I’m late, was Julian with you?”

“Yea, he was. Don’t worry, Mrs. Lennon. He didn’t cause me any trouble, did you, Jude?”

Julian shook his head, going over to help his mother up from the chair.

“I meant to be here sooner, I really did. It’s just-- Work, I’m sure you know how it is, and his dad isn’t...” The woman practically had ‘apologetic’ written all over her face, deciding to stick her hand out. “Cynthia, you are?”

Paul grabbed her hand and gave it a firm shake. “Mr. McCartney, I’m the band director. Little Jude tells me your husband signed him up.” Cynthia nodded. “Lovely, about that, we need to talk about the minor details. Is there any time you three-” Paul and Julian looked at each other, ‘ _yes, you included,’_ “-could come in for a meeting?”

She nodded again, taking a second to think. “I thought he would have worked everything out with you by now, I’m so sorry. I’m off next Monday, John should be too, are you free then?”

“Yea. How’s about five o’clock, would that work for you?”

“AM, or PM?” Cynthia joked, in spite of how exhausted she seemed to be.

“Good Lord, PM, I’m not looking to be beheaded.” Paul returned the banter. She seemed like a kind enough woman, at least she seemed to care about Julian. “I’ll see you lovely bunch later, then. Good luck with the husband, ma’am.” With a click of his tongue, he winked, a slight blush spreading across Cynthia’s face. Paul’s always been a bit of a flirt, if only to cheer people up.

“Yes, we’ll see you,” Cynthia giggled, grabbing Julian’s hand. “Thank you for your time, say goodbye, Julie!”

Julian waved, and Paul waved back, watching the two leave. As soon as they were out of sight, he leaned his head back, releasing a held in breath. Lord. He loved every single part of his job, yeah. But that didn’t mean it was always easy. There was still this pit in his stomach, where his worries for the little boy laid. Cynthia, from what he could tell, was a pure delight. But Mr. Lennon? Well, Paul would just have to put his anxieties aside, and assess the damage on Monday.

Besides, he had to get home and feed his silly little Martha.


	2. This Boy

Paul’s weekend was a relaxing one.

Of course, he never _really_ had days off. Almost all free time he had at home was devoted to taking care of his dog, Martha, or cleaning. He was learning how to cook; honestly, he was rubbish at it. Hell, work followed him home, too. He would spend hours collecting and listening to arrangements that sounded good, but would be easy enough for the kids to learn. Paul was picky, only because he wanted the best for the band. Still, even through all of it, he found the time to leisurely play his guitar in the evening.

_This_ was nothing he could call relaxing.

There Paul was, sitting pretty in his classroom, sipping away at a cup of cooling tea and waiting to hear the Lennon family walking through the halls. It was well after 5 o’clock, and while he didn’t exactly have anywhere to be, he couldn’t help but be annoyed. Paul didn’t think it was unreasonable to expect respect for his time. Something in his gut told him that it was that dratted father’s fault. Was that a biased thing to think? Well, certainly. But at 26, he had earned his right to have biases. 

The door swung open, and it took every last nerve Paul had to not jump out of his seat. His gaze flicked to the entrance as he feigned tranquility, resting on the man now in his class.

_Oh._

Was this Julian’s father? He looked like him a little, with wavy brown hair just a few shades lighter than little Jude’s mop, and almond eyes that seemed a little too judgemental. They even shared a sharp nose. On the flat bridge sat a pair of circle glasses. Paul thought that, if it weren’t for the bad taste in his mouth, he could think of the man as an old friend.

Well, there’s one Lennon, but that leaves Cynthia and Julian unaccounted for. “Hello, Mr. Lennon!” Paul greeted him as warmly as he could. “You can have a seat over ‘ere.”

The stranger looked at Paul for a moment. “...You’re Mr. McCartney? Band teacher?”

Paul nodded, a slight smile taking over his face. The Lennon’s voice was almost nasally-- not too threatening. “That would be me. Well, last time I checked I was, at least. Don’t think anything’s happened to change that, sir.”

Lennon grinned right back, but something about it was unkind. He walked over to the empty chair, sitting down. “Can’t be right. Y’look like a snot-nosed kid, son.”

Paul forced himself to laugh, doing his best to wave the off-colored comment off as a compliment. “Right, I’ve been told I look a tad young for my age. Lucky, aren’t I?” Lennon nodded, propping his elbows on the teacher’s desk. “Will Mrs. Lennon and Julian be joining us today, are they running a tad late?”

“You sure you’re from ‘round here?” The man avoided the question. “Y’Sound like a proper little brat.”

“I’m sure, Mr. Lennon--”

“--John. It’s just John, none ‘a that stuffy trash.” It was less of a suggestion, and more of a command, really.

“...John. I’m positive I’m from here. Liverpool born, Liverpool raised. Now, will anybody else be joining us?” Paul’s tone sharpened. Not even three minutes into meeting this man, he was almost certain they weren’t going to get along.

Lennon… _John_ laughed from the back of his throat, finally leaning back in his seat. “No. Cyn said she isn’t in the mood t’look at me right now.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear, John.” Paul softened, as much as he didn’t want to. He was just naturally sympathetic like that.

“Yea, sure you are,” His grin became bitter, and Paul couldn’t tell whether the venom was directed at the situation, or at _him._ “Was going to bring JCJ. She decided to take ‘im to the greasy spoon downtown instead.”

“Ah, Hal’s Diner? That place is still open?” Paul began looking through the piles of paper on his desk, mostly as an excuse to not look at the man in front of him.

“Yea. The food fuckin’ clogs your gut for a good few days. Sure you wouldn’t know anything about that, looks like you’ve never had a hard day in your pampered little life.” And there it was; open hostility.

“ _Mr. Lennon,_ ” Paul snapped, smacking a packet of papers in front of John. “You aren’t at your home, you’re in my classroom. This is _my_ space, and you drop whatever hostility you have when you enter. Show me the same respect that I show you, or you may leave. Understood?” John seemed a little dumbfounded, but he nodded, after a long pause. It gave Paul the feeling that the man wasn’t used to being talked back to. Maybe he went a little too far. How could he reel it back? 

The diner. “...And I’ll tell you,” Paul sighed, “I know all about Hal’s.”

After some hesitation, John finally decided to bite back. “No way.” 

“I do know! My mum used to take me there when I got good grades. Lovely fish, horrid cramps.”

“Aye, sounds like Hal. Man takes ‘last meal’ too seriously, doesn’t he?” Paul bit his lip, trying and failing to hold back chuckles. John looked proud for a second, before speaking back up. “What’s this here for, then?” He gestured towards the packet, relief flooding Paul. Finally.

“Glad you asked. It’s basic paperwork, nothing too complicated. I’ll walk you through it. Right here,” Paul pointed at a box of text on the front page, “is the instrument selection. Just bubble in which one Little Julian wants to play.” John snatched a pen from Paul’s cup, biting off the cap and scribbling next to the ‘trumpet’ option. “Lovely choice, I played it in school myself. Really knocks the wind outta you sometimes, though. And right here,” Paul’s finger slid down, “you can choose to either rent or buy the horn.”

John looked up to Paul. “And what d’you think I should do?”

“Personally, I think you should buy. Renting really adds up, after a few months. If you reckon Julian’s gonna be sticking with band class, then buying will save you a good chunk of money. The only real upside about renting is that the thing doesn’t become a family heirloom if Julian decides he doesn’t want to play it anymore.”

John nodded like he understood, but his wrinkled brows and squinted eyes told the truth.

Paul had to try not to laugh again. He had no idea how many times he could get away with laughing at John’s expense before getting strangled. “I just mean, the only good thing about renting is that you can easily return the trumpet, when Julian’s out of band.” 

“Right. Not everybody’s gonna get what y’mean, when you flower up your sentences t’hell ‘n back.” John was smirking again. “And what if I’m looking to get a second hand trumpet for ‘im, lad? What would you say to tha’?”

“Well, Mr. Lennon, that would cut this meeting very short.”

“ _Would_ it, now?” John leaned in a little closer. Good god.

Paul straightened his posture, swallowing. He wasn’t about to be intimidated by a man wearing teashades. Though, he had to admit, they fit John. He just wasn’t sure why. “Yes-- What you’re filling out is to help me, mostly, since I’m more or less in charge of transactions. It’s all just marking down an instrument, whether you’re renting or buying, what brand, a payment plan, and any minor details. But, if you’d like to get your horn elsewhere, then this meeting could be done.”

John didn’t say anything, but his smirk stayed.

Paul somehow knew what that meant. “You asked to waste my time, didn’t you?”

“How bloody blunt you are, McCartney.” John faked offense. This time, Paul finally giggled again, and he could almost feel the other man’s ego swell. “Maybe I did. But that sure is an oversight of yours.” He filled the circle next to the ‘buying’ option, seeming to have taken Paul’s advice. “Brands? Tell me all about it, McCartney.”

“Yamaha is my recommendation. You’d be buying a standard Bb horn. It’s pricey, but plays well. Has a good lacquer, so Julian can toss it around a bit without it denting.” John scribbled down the brand without asking any more questions, seeming to move along on his own. _Payment plan?_ **_Check, full amount._ ** _Extras?_ **_Polishing cloth, valve oil._ ** _Shipping address?_ John scribbled down a line that he couldn’t read from his angle, and he quickly realized that he should be paying less attention to what this man was doing, unless he wanted to be caught staring.

“You’re a string player, aren’t you?” John asked, the question seeming to come out of nowhere.

“Yea, actually. I play acoustic guitar, used to tinker with bass in college, but it never really stuck. Y’know?” John nodded, his smile more genuine and relaxed than before. Paul couldn’t help but admit he was impressed by how observant the man was, even if he was damn near insufferable. There’s nothing wrong with indulging in a little bit of mindless conversation, right? “How did you know?"

“Easy t’tell. Your nails are longer on the left hand, ‘n your right hand’s fingers ‘ve got calluses. Play classical style, don’t you?” Now it was Paul’s turn to nod. “Lefty?” Another nod. John laughed, sliding the packet of paper over to the teacher. He then lifted his left hand, showing off the shiny pads of thick skin on his fingers. Paul had to try not to seem all too interested in this stranger’s digits. “Oi. Got a name, other than McCartney?”

“Yea. I just don’t make a habit of telling parents.” He grabbed his cup of tea, taking a slow sip with purpose.

“C’mon. We’re both adults ‘ere.”

“Not to be rude, but you said I looked like a child not even fifteen minutes ago, Mr. Lennon.”

“Then prove me wrong ‘n tell me your name, little sidy.”

“...Paul. James, if you’d prefer it, but anyone you ask would tell you it’s Paul.” The teacher grabbed the finished packet, now regretting the amount of work he put into making the bloody thing. John didn’t even read a single page, but Paul almost desperately wanted to cut this meeting short. “Well, it looks like we’re done here. Lovely meeting you, Mr. Lennon.” He stood from his chair, outstretching his hand for John to shake.

John just kept looking at Paul from his seat. “Sit back down. Let’s chat.”

Something compelled him to do as he was told.

~ ~ ~

An hour had passed. It was 6 o’clock, nearly dark outside, and Paul was standing outside with John. The two were leaned against the side of the school, the cold of the brick unpleasant on their backs, but not so unbearable that either of them would complain. John was sucking on a cigarette like a straw, jumping between topics to talk about with each puff. It was either his unhappiness with Cynthia, which Paul didn’t care much to hear, or his old music days. That was a lot more interesting.

From what Paul understood, John had a high school band, but it never had any real success. He played rhythm guitar, since his fingers could never move fast enough to handle lead. He, with his bombastic speech and strange expressions, had managed to have Paul in stitches a few times. John always liked being a sort of funnyman, even with strangers, and this prissy little teacher was a good target for the time being. 

A car pulled into the parking lot, Paul’s eyes slowly watching as it rolled to a stop. “Tha’s Cyn, I bet,” John mumbled, dropping his cigarette and smashing it out with the tip of his shoe. “Nice chat, Paul. Say hello to the dog for me?” Paul rolled his eyes.

“Sure, I’ll tell Martha all about you. Say hello to Julian and Mrs. Lennon for me, too.”

“ _Mr. McCartney!_ ” A distant voice yelled. Julian, who was half hung out of the car window, was waving manically and smiling his excited little smile.

“ _Ello! Little Jude!_ ” Paul waved back, a familiar happiness blooming in his chest. He turned to John, and they shared a short smile. It was almost to say, _this was sort of nice._

John walked to the car, giving a nod to Paul as a goodbye. As soon as he climbed into the passenger seat, an audible argument broke out, one which Paul couldn’t clearly understand. He didn’t need to. That bitter taste was back in his mouth, and it reminded him why he wasn’t excited to meet John… _Mr. Lennon_ in the first place. He watched the car drive away, his arms crossing. Julian was still in there, confused, and hurt. Wondering why his parents were fighting. Any sweetness he'd thought the couple held was replaced with pity for their child. That was the worst part. Well... Paul would just have to make the little bugger's day at school tomorrow an extra good one.

He turned on his heel to finally get to his own car, the cold having rendered his hands almost numb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's currently almost 1 AM, and I've finally finished this update! Hurrah, right? Anyways, the two meet! It didn't go too perfectly, as you can tell, but at least they're on first name basis now. John just doesn't know how to keep his mouth shut, but what else is new, really?
> 
> Let me know what you think!


End file.
